


Industrious Sinner

by Alistra (ALeaseInWonderland)



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Punisher (Comics), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: BDSM, Blind Character, Catholic Guilt, Dom/sub, Heresy, Improper Use of Catholic Rituals, Inspired by Fanart, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, a heretic's guide to prayer in porn, sense deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 21:28:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28873839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALeaseInWonderland/pseuds/Alistra
Summary: Distraction leads to mistakes, and mistakes can be deadly in their line of operation. Allowing himself to be distracted means loss of control and with so many aspects of his life already beyond his grasp, the one thing Matt can't abide is to give up just one more shred of it. Frank is an unknown variable in the carefully calculated fractions of Matt's double-life and it grates like nothing has ever done before.Just like a bad penny, he keeps turning up - even though Matt must admit that finding the man tied to a chair in his own apartment is an unexpected novelty.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Matt Murdock
Comments: 8
Kudos: 41





	Industrious Sinner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [feathers_and_cigarettes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feathers_and_cigarettes/gifts).



> Feathers is a filthy enabler who drew [a restrained Frank Castle](https://feathers-and-cigarettes.tumblr.com/post/643052056040587264/for-frattweek-prompts-red-and-heart-drawing-by) and then plied me with character analysis until I wrote him half of this story as flash fic into his DMs. I have revised and improved on that first draft before posting the finished results here and Feathers gave it an entirely selfless beta. Thank you. 
> 
> As expected, all of the following is pure unapologetic filth and heresy.

_\- An industrious sinner I much prefer to a lazy saint. -_ Sophie Kerr -  
  


Fighting crime and doing the Lord's work used to be so much easier, Matt thinks, when temptation didn't come in the shape of Frank Castle.

It's not even so much about the Punisher's principles vs. Daredevil's as it is about the man himself; the way that Frank gets under Matt's skin. How he makes his presence unignorable with every breath, every absent-minded cracking of his knuckles and every nigh-inaudible noise that gives away he's pursing his lips in thought.

 _Forgive him, for Matt is expending too much thought on Frank's lips  
_ _and the things he could be doing with them;  
rather than _ _raging at the world in general and at Matt in particular.  
  
_

Distraction leads to mistakes, and mistakes can be deadly in their line of operation. Allowing himself to be distracted means loss of control and with so many aspects of his life already beyond his grasp, the one thing Matt can't abide is to give up just one more shred of it. Frank is an unknown variable in the carefully calculated fractions of Matt's double-life and it grates like nothing has ever done before.

Just like a bad penny, he keeps turning up - even though Matt must admit that finding the man tied to a chair in his own apartment is an unexpected novelty.

Pacing the perimeter, Matt assures himself that there are no other surprises waiting for him.

"Fancy meeting you here, Frank" he says, with forced casualness.

There is no smartass remark in return, which is suspiciously out of character.

Matt hears the wet noise of nervous swallowing, can practically see the bobbing of Frank's stubbled Adam's apple in his mind's eye.

 _Forgive him, for Matt has been abusing himself, the image of that throat_ _  
swallowing him down burning hot against his closed eyelids.  
  
_

Matt trips over an obstacle that doesn't belong in his tidy apartment and which, on closer inspection, turns out to be a pair of boots. Heavy, scuffed, and battered army boots.

He tastes the air for traces that will tell him more about what is waiting for him, quests for _bloodtearsfear_ but all he can make out are remnants of cigarette smoke (stale), rainy gutter (outside), printer's ink (bills pushed under the door). And then, wafting over from his unexpected prisoner, _warmmalearousal_ and only the barest hint of fear, like the pinch of salt that perfects the dish.

The combination hits Matt like a punch to the solar plexus, taking his breath away and diverting his circulation so fast it leaves him briefly dizzied.

"Frank?" he asks, and if he hadn't long ago schooled himself to master his emotions, there might have been a tremor to his voice. "Can't say I dared hope to see the day you'd ever shut up."

A muffled grunt is his reply, accompanied by the whisper of wet, silky fabric and it dawns on Matt that Frank is gagged. If he stopped for rational contemplation for just one second, he _should_ be wondering about who would leave him a message like this. Who knows Matt Murdock, rather than Daredevil, has recently been working in snarky-if-efficient tandem with the Punisher? But the mental image of Frank so close, powerless and completely under Matt's control, is enough to bring him to full, undeniable and distracting hardness.

Distraction means he'll miss something important. Like the fact that somebody has moved the coffee table. Matt's shin hurts.

Where the table is supposed to be, at the center of the room, he hears the nervous shifting of weight on a chair (the mismatched wooden one Foggy hates because it creaks). Investigating, Matt carefully ventures closer. Frank's scent speaks to him of clean skin and fresh sweat, of recent exertion (a struggle?) but not of blood or gunpowder. Instead -he takes another greedy lungful of air to confirm- _arousal_.

Frank's breathing through his nose, even and steady, no hint of distress, as if he’s perfectly alright with his situation.

_Forgive him, for Matt wants to make him surrender to his will.  
  
_

The intensity of Matt's pulse is descending like a smothering cloud over his judgment, drowning out his most capable senses, and throbbing in his ears, not to mention underneath the unassuming wool of his suit pants.

Restraint dwindling rapidly, he advances on Frank, who stays uncharacteristically still, only making sudden, bird-like jerking motions with his head now and then, likely to keep track of his movements. When Matt draws close, it starts making sense, the swish of cloth through air adding up to not just a gag, but a blindfold with dangling ends.

Slick clicking betrays Frank's jaw working over saliva-saturated fabric.

Red.

Matt remembers the connotations of the colour, remembers the provocative undertone when Frank spits the single syllable at him instead of using his name.

In Matt's mind, the gag is as red as arterial blood.

 _Forgive him, for Matt craves to lead Frank down_ _  
_ _the paths of wickedness to meet his own twisted desires.  
  
_

With sudden urgency, he circles the chair, feels the displacement of air as Frank contorts to try and track his movement in the room. Ironically, he's less accustomed to relying on other senses than sight, tilting his head as if that will give those satellite dishes he calls ears better reception.

Matt smirks.

He draws a deep breath, fully aware it'll be audible; soaking up the intoxicating confirmation that he isn't alone in this increasingly overwhelming state of want.

A spark of sadistic joy flares up inside him, fanned by the sudden nervous uptick in Frank's heart rate when Matt stands behind him and places his hands with deceiving gentleness upon his shoulders.

Almost casually, his fingers wander towards Frank's neck and meander over his hairline, learning the exact placement of the gag and blindfold. A shaky, strangely grateful-sounding moan tears free before him, and only then does Matt notice that he's curled his fingers into Frank's hair, just barely long enough at the top to be pulled tight.

It's not a bad noise at all and Matt finds himself tightening his grip, a dark and desperate hunger turning over in his stomach when Frank leans into the sting, wordlessly signalling his submission.

This, _this_ is not what he expected. To feel Frank's head loll back so willingly to rest against Matt's dress shirt, immediately turning his face to seek more contact. Matt's other hand comes around Frank's throat almost on its own accord, and if he were trying to reason, he might make up something about steadying him, or making him more comfortable.

The truth is, that the jumping pulse under his thumb is hypnotic and seductive, vying for dominance in Matt's perception with the deafening drumbeat of his own. The last of his composure crumbles when it accelerates under his tightening grip.

He releases Frank's hair, trails his fingers over skin and cloth alike, past the line of his characteristic nose, along the scruff of an overdue shave and down towards his chest. Firm muscles are bunching and twitching under his palm but never away, only ever straining into his touch.

Hot desire flashes down Matt's spine when he considers the possibility that this gift-wrapped manifestation of his deepest darkest sinful desires _wants_ to be here, wants to deliver himself completely to his mercy.

He has to lean in now if he wants to reach lower, and up close, Matt shudders under the renewed onslaught of pheromones, undeniable and overpowering.

Frank rears up against the bindings that hold his arms so firmly behind his back, his throat working underneath the restricting hand. And yet, his hips don't shy away but tilt upwards in demanding impatience instead.

Matt releases Frank's throat just long enough to wrap the dangling ends of the gag around his palm and _pull_. 

The resulting muffled shout sings in his bones. 

His teeth come down against Frank's jugular less than tenderly, all of Matt's senses honing in on bristle and salt against his tongue. Agitated blood draws up purple against the skin underneath his lips. Matt feels intoxicated by the gasping breaths and desperate whines fighting their way past spit-drenched fabric.

Greedy, he trails his hand down the hard planes of muscled chest, an accusing history of hurts, pains and injustices revealing itself in the Braille of scar tissue underneath his fingertips.

Frank fidgets, growing increasingly impatient- of course he is. He's always impatient, can never wait for Matt and his sensible solutions, his plans.

And yet, here he is, at Matt's mercy. This time, he'll wait.

He'll wait until he's allowed to -

Matt confidently closes his fist around the heavy weight of Frank's hard cock and the resulting desperate noise of gratitude derails the last of his remaining orderly thoughts.

If he wasn't coming apart at the seams with hungry want himself, Matt's ego might consider a tantrum about how Frank, even bound, gagged, blindfolded and naked, for fuck's sake, once again excelled at short-circuiting Matt's best-laid plans.

Frustration manifests in the merciless, artlessly efficient rhythm he sets on the silken skin burning hot against his palm. Eager droplets catch on his fingers, spurring him on. Even still fully clothed himself, he's panting as hard as Frank. Quick, hungry, open-mouthed gasps, as if he could eat the scent of Frank's brittle resolve breaking down right out of the air.

The chair creaks alarmingly as Frank throws himself against his restraints. It's out of the question that he's trying to escape, unmistakably canting his hips into Matt's mercilessly pumping grip, in limbo between the fist on his dick and the gag pulling him backwards. Incomprehensible gibberish of desperation is trapped by the sodden cloth between his bared teeth.

Matt's lips are tingling from the bruises they've worried into Frank's neck, muscles in his arm beginning to cramp from the uncomfortable angle, but he'll be twice-damned if he can contain himself now. Speeding up his hand makes Frank's uneven breaths quicken as well and Matt grits his teeth with exertion.

"That all you got, Frank? I'm getting bored here," he hisses viciously, so close against the guy's ear that his lips brush wetly against the shell. "I'm giving up at the count of three and if you're not done by then..." he leaves the end of the sentence dangling like a promise. Frank chokes out something unintelligible but undoubtedly filthy and threatening behind his gag.

"One..." Matt gives his wrist an extra twist on the downstroke, biting his lips in anticipation.

"Two..." but, before the syllable has fully formed, as if he's only been waiting for permission, Frank's entire body seizes up on a choked sob, his heart beating a triumphant, euphoric staccato in Matt's ears as he comes in an impressive arch across Matt's fist, his own chest, and, in a stray drop or two, all the way up to his collarbone.

 _Forgive him, for Matt wants to take his tongue_ _  
_ _to every inch of Frank's skin and eat this man alive.  
  
_

The scent assaults Matt's senses, almost bringing him to his knees as his own neglected arousal clamours for attention. In front of him, Frank's chest is heaving, his nostrils flaring and Matt realizes for the first time just how hard his grip on the back of the gag has limited his air supply.

Staggering to his feet by help of Frank's trembling shoulders, he tries to take in his handiwork.

It's frustratingly impossible.

All of Matt's synapses must be firing at once, his general oversensitivity dialled up to eleven under the influence of their combined scents and raging hormones. It's impossible to ignore the throbbing of his own desire for a single moment longer, his need overpowering reason.

His touch isn't gentle when he wrangles the drenched cloth out of Frank's mouth with a sticky hand, earning himself gasping breaths and a bitten-off curse.

The frantic urge to bury himself in Frank's body is clouding Matt's judgement, but, like so often, it's his impatience that wins out. 

Before Frank can get any bright ideas about ruining this completely ordinary moment of collegial interaction with some delightful social commentary, Matt delivers a well-placed kick to the back of the chair's seat, sending it crashing forward. Frank yells in surprise as the chair's overexerted front legs snap clean off, delivering him into an unkind, hobbled kneeling position that can't be comfortable with his arms still fixed to the wreck of ruined furniture.

_Forgive him, for Matt, in all honesty, doesn't give a fuck.  
  
_

In the brief respite of stunned silence, Matt loses his jacket in the vague direction of where his couch should be and tries not to think about what the dry-cleaner will think of the mess in and around his sleeve.

A minor note of copper mingles with the overpowering aroma of masculine exertion and sex.

Matt inclines his head to listen and hears Frank clear his throat. The slick slide of his tongue against parched lips; a hesitation and repetition. The copper tang lessens.

His lip must have split when Matt removed the gag.

Something dark and pleased rattles the cage bars of Matt's composure at the discovery.

_Forgive him, for Matt knows the depths of his own depravity.  
  
_

Disoriented, Frank shakes his head, possibly to dislodge the blindfold, but he stills at the crisp jangle of Matt unhurriedly undoing his belt buckle.

He raises his chin in the direction of the noise and Matt can just tell there's a challenge in his posture, heralded by the soft shuffle of his movement.

Hunger burning under his skin, the gentleness with which he cups Frank's cheek probably surprises them both in equal measures.

Admittedly, it might have passed as a more romantic gesture if his palm wasn't still partially covered in the guy's jizz. As it is, Frank reflexively twitches away from the unexpectedly messy caress, and without conscious thought, Matt follows, firmly gripping Frank's jaw and sliding his thumb across his closed lips. It's not cruel exactly, but the insistent intention is clear when he presses down. His heart soars when, without so much as a second thought, Frank willingly opens wide.

Well. It _is_ said that it is in giving that we shall receive.

Matt closes the last short distance and, with what he feels must be superhuman restraint, uses his free hand to free himself and guide his aching dick to Frank's waiting mouth.

A punched out gasp escapes him when Frank's tongue darts out to taste his pooling excitement, the heat and wetness the most sinful of promises.

Matt wants to hear it, wants to _make him say_ how eager he is for Matt's cock in his mouth, to have spoken confirmation of just how much he is in control of this whole insane scenario but, as always, Frank has his own agenda. Before Matt can demand so much as a single syllable, Frank dives forward and swallows him down with abandon.

Reality shrinks to a pinpoint of _wetpressureheat_ and Matt touches the face of the divine, shatters into a million fragments of time, space and reality and comes back to himself; an overwhelmed, shaking, panting mortal.

Frank releases his oversensitive dick and the grounding hands on Matt's ass are all that keeps his knees from buckling. Vaguely, he registers a cough, a hawking spit and the unpleasant squish of phlegmy moisture hitting the carpet. 

Frank pats Matt's naked flank as if he was a spooked dog who's earned himself a treat.

It is testament to just how hard he's come that it takes him a minute before he realizes there's something inherently wrong with that picture.

With trembling hands, Matt searches in front of him, encountering Frank's face and, chilled to the core, earns himself a kiss to his open palm and an amused chuckle.

All his questions try to get asked first, tangling and hindering each other until all that leaves his lips is an embarrassing non-word noise.

Frank, still on his knees before him, releases his hold, slowly as if he's making sure Matt will stay upright.

"Couch is half a step behind you. You look like you could do with sitting down," he offers, smirk evident in his tone. His voice is so hoarse that Matt's dick makes a valid, if futile, attempt at showing appreciation.

"What...?" is what Matt's brain eventually manages to come out with.

Frank wipes his thumb over the corner of his grin and laughs under his breath, "you're so easy, Red."

"...the fuck?" Matt finishes the question, with some delay, but, as he can't help but insist, somehow still context-appropriate.

He shuffles his pants-hobbled ankles backwards where they, after exactly the promised half-step, encounter the couch. Confused and out of his depth, Matt perfunctorily tucks himself away and gingerly lowers himself into the familiar old cushions.

Frank, displaying an unbalancing lack of concern, performs a full-body stretch to the tune of cracking joints. Splintered chairlegs skitter noisily off the carpet and over the polished floor, carelessly kicked aside as he goes rustling through something that, as Matt attempts to focus his still somewhat frazzled senses, is probably a heap of clothes. It's followed by the cracking of a plastic seal and the fizz of escaping carbonation.

Frank audibly swallows greedy gulps of water and takes up a comfortable slouch opposite him. 

"Don't get your spunk on my nice clean couch," Matt spits, because if he can't be a prickly bitch right now, what else does he have left to try and save face? 

_Forgive him, for there is no salvation for the damned._  
  


Frank grins in that infuriating, head-tilting way; it's evident in the miniscule change in sound as he takes another drink of water. Matt waits to hear him wipe his hands on the worn leather seat out of pure spite, but he seems content to keep hydrating and quietly look him over. 

As the adrenaline slowly wears off, exhaustion settles on top of Matt like a leaden blanket. He's got a dozen questions, but sheer pigheadedness makes him reluctant to be the first to break the silence of Frank's unreadable scrutiny.

"Why?" he eventually caves after an uncertain amount of time, weary, confused and spoiling for a reason to choose aggression out of the mass of conflicting emotions swirling inside him. It's second nature by now to err on the side of self-preservation. 

"Don't pretend you didn't enjoy yourself," Frank replies. 

Matt imagines him lounging confidently, the omnipresent buzz of the neon lights outside his window painting his unapologetic nudity with irregular splashes of colour. 

In his gut, hunger and want wage war against all-encompassing guilt and fear of rejection. 

"Not the question, asshole," he bites out testily. 

Frank huffs with amusement, as if Matt's proven his point. Sighing contently, he leans forward to rest his arms on top of his knees (a hush of downy hair on his muscled forearms against its sparser counterpart on the biteable meat of his thigh). The bottle is set aside with an empty, hollow sound. 

"We both know you'd never have allowed yourself to agree to any of this if I hadn't made it look like it was your idea in the first place," Frank says, affectionately adding "you dumb fuck" under his breath.

Temper flaring, Matt draws breath to argue, but Frank raises a calming palm in his direction. "You wanna work through your feelings with your fists again, fine, at least be decent enough to let me find my pants first." 

He rises, but instead of giving any indication to attack or even get dressed, he says, "Alternatively, we can put a pin in you being a self-flagellating asshole for once, and skip the whole touchy-feely stuff in favour of round two in your shower."

Outwardly, Matt scowls, but he hesitates only briefly. "Shower's too small," he grouses, "but get your ass in there anyway. You _reek._ "

"And whose fault is that?" Frank replies evenly, the victorious grin tugging at the corner of his lips barely noticeable. 

"Shut the fuck up and get going. I'll be in the bedroom waiting to put you through the fucking mattress." 

" _There is no peace, saith the Lord, unto the wicked_ ," quotes Frank, grinning as he strides towards the bathroom.


End file.
